Storytelling - "My Father and the Spell of the Blue Light" by Kristi Marie Gott

My father was able to invent a story at the drop of a hat. He told the stories to us in such a realistic way that as children we listened seriously, thinking he was telling us the truth. Then after the story was over we could tell by his facial expression that he had made it all up.

Some of these stories were obviously not true, but we enjoyed them so much that we wished to suspend our belief systems for awhile. and enter into the stories fully.

Once my parents brought home a beautiful antique light made of blue etched glass and hung it from the ceiling. It cast a blue glow over the antique pine dining table.

When we all sat in the dark living room, viewing the blue light in the dining room with awe, I noticed my father's green eyes narrow. He raised his eyebrows at the same time, a sign that he was about to say something interesting.

Thus began his story of "The Spell of the Blue Light." It was like sitting by the campfire listening to stories, except we were home. I was in the third grade or somewhere near that age.

In the semi-dark living room, with the blue light washing over us, my father explained in a soft voice, "I didn't tell you right away, kids, but this blue light casts a spell. When you turn the light on the ghosts of the family who first owned the light, over 100 years ago, come back and sit under the light. If you look closely you can see something now. You can feel that someone is there."

We really did look closely, just in case someone or something was there. It did seem that in the blue glow there might be something different in the air, like shadows, under the light around the dining table. We looked at my father, hypnotized.

His quiet, sing song voice went on, describing the people and what they were doing. When he said, "and that's the story of the spell of the blue light" we were sorry the tale was already over.

I never went through the dining room again without looking at the blue light and
seeing if I "felt" anyone was there.

Having a father who was a storyteller made everything so much more fun. The real spell was the one cast by my father with his storytelling. It was like a magic spell that made ordinary things seem more interesting.